


Keeping It In The Dark

by AquaWolfGirl



Series: Aqua's Caltrilla Fics [4]
Category: Star Wars: Jedi: Fallen Order (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Just all the fluff and angst, Scar Kissing, Scar Worship, Self-Hatred, Self-Loathing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:41:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22157212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AquaWolfGirl/pseuds/AquaWolfGirl
Summary: Post-game AU. Having survived Vader's strike, Trilla struggles with her scar and all of its little annoyances. Cal is too compassionate for his own good. A short, sweet oneshot exploring some hurt/comfort, some softness, as well as a good bit of angst and self-loathing. Lots of bare skin and kisses.
Relationships: Cal Kestis/Trilla Suduri | Second Sister
Series: Aqua's Caltrilla Fics [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1706914
Comments: 18
Kudos: 312





	Keeping It In The Dark

**Author's Note:**

> This idea has been lingering in the back of my mind ever since I saw some art on Twitter, became obsessed, and devoured every single cut scene in a matter of 24 hours. Playing the game through has made me want these two even more! I'll admit I struggled writing them a bit (gotta break them in, you know) but I hope this soft little fic does these two beautiful and complex characters some sort of justice. I just was craving some hurt/comfort and noticed there wasn't much of it in the tag. Gotta write what you want to read, I guess!  
> Hope you all enjoy!

She hates her scar. 

It’s not that it’s ugly, though it is. Lightsaber wounds cauterize immediately. The scars are always horrific, jagged and raised and dark. Even an entire tankful of bacta wouldn’t restore the smoothness that once was. She understands that. She’s accepted it. 

The truth of the matter is that the damned thing has become an ever-present nuisance, even weeks after she was dragged from Nur by the two people she loathed the most in all the galaxy. 

It hinders her ability to shoot a blaster, to swing her saber correctly, to reach for the simplest things. The highest shelves in the galley of the _Mantis_ has become the bane of her existence. To use the sonic shower is to wince in pain until she is clean, the skin still taut and unforgiving as it attempts to knit itself back together. 

She’s made her peace with the way it looks. It’s the way that it _feels_ that makes her bite her tongue in rage and agony every time she moves her shoulder. Or her arm. Or even her head. 

“Again.”

Trilla hisses the word between gritted teeth. The little Jedi groans as he pushes himself up from the floor of their makeshift training room. It takes every single atom of her being not to snap at him, not to insist that whatever bruises he’ll wake with tomorrow morning are absolutely _nothing_ compared to the fire that is her back. 

“If you don’t want to wake black and blue, then you need to start defending yourself,” she taunts, taking a step around Cal as he pushes himself to his feet. She grips her wooden training weapon so hard she can almost hear the wood crack and splinter.

“You say that like I’m not trying,” he mumbles as he opens his hand for his own wooden rod, the weapon flying into his palm.

“Are you?” she asks, raising a dark brow at him and watching as he resumes his defensive position. “I don’t think you are.”

Her sudden lunge catches him off guard. She manages to knock him in the shoulder, hearing his pained hiss as he stumbles back. To his credit, he does thrust back well enough. She blocks his blow, but she can feel the strength behind it. Not bad for someone who was knocked on his ass mere seconds before. 

“Again,” she snarls, pushing him off before preparing for his next strike.

His next blow is harder than his first. The contact between his rod and hers makes her bite her cheek hard enough she tastes the metallic tang of blood. As he presses forward, she’s forced to raise her arm to keep his makeshift lightsaber from grazing her cheek. The higher her arm goes, the hotter the fire of her scar burns. She grinds her teeth, her jaw aching as she keeps his dowel at bay. 

The moment it becomes too much is the same moment he moves his dowel against hers, attempting to disarm her. She cries out, attempting to mask the sound as one of frustration. A twist of her wrist, and she disarms him instead, his dowel hitting the floor with a clang before it continues to roll well away from him. The end of hers finds his collarbone, just to the side of his pulse. He stares up at her, wide-eyed and panting, and she keeps her jaw clenched through the agony.

He can’t know.

“We’re finished.”

She doesn’t give him an opportunity to protest before she’s turning, tossing the dowel aside and stomping off to find bacta.

-

The first time he sees it is an accident. 

It’s late. She can’t sleep. Sleeping on her back is impossible. Sleeping on her side puts strain on her shoulder muscles, and therefore her scar. To sleep on her stomach is truly the only option, but the pillow is thin, and so she must slip her arm beneath it to rest her head properly. Which, of course, also puts strain on her shoulder, and her scar. It’s a never-ending, vicious cycle of agonizing pins and needles, and uncomfortable tightness.

She’s getting incredibly irritated with herself, with how much she’s relying on bacta just to get a decent night’s rest. It’s been weeks, now, she should be able to sleep. She should be able to handle the pain. She was taught, she was trained, she was _conditioned_ to turn pain into something beneficial, something productive, was she not?

It works in the battlefield, perhaps. But not in a bunk.

She shouldn’t have taken the chance. She should have just grabbed the damned cannister and walked back to her makeshift room, and put it on there, as she always has. But the openness of the common room makes the pain a little more tolerable. She’s been breathing slowly and counting the bolts on her ceiling for hours now in an attempt to succumb to sleep. 

There are distractions here. Her room is a dark vacuum of pain and self-loathing. Out here, there is beeping, there are the dim emergency lights, there is the whirring of the cooling system and the engines and the hyperdrive. It makes it difficult to think, to sink into her thoughts and the darkness that still remains. It’s perfect.

To lift her shirt up and over her head is impossible. The past few weeks have been a cruel test of just how to accomplish everyday tasks without screaming in pain. Undressing is no different. It takes careful maneuvering and calculated movements to sneak her arms from her shirt. Trilla pulls the fabric down over her bare chest, giving her some sense of modesty and keeping her somewhat warm in the cool common room. It’s much easier to do it out here, she decides. There’s more room to contort herself than in the storage closet that has been deemed her room. She may look ridiculous, but at least she won’t bang her elbow against a durasteel wall. The last thing she needs right now is more pain.

Bacta will never not feel disgusting, Trilla decides, dipping her fingers into the small cannister and scooping some of the warm blue substance onto her fingers. But for all of its stickiness, it does help. The pins and needles are calmed the moment the bacta is spread across her skin. It’s pitiful, truly, how easily a sob of relief catches in her throat. 

It’s also pitiful that it took her this long to realize just how _loud_ his Force signature is. He’s behind her, lingering in the hallway. She has no excuse for not realizing he was there aside from lack of sleep, and pain. Embarrassing, truly.

“Can I help you?” she asks, her voice chilly. She moves, keeping her arm over her chest, reassuring herself the fabric is still there to cover her as she turns to face him. 

It’s difficult to tell whether he was asleep or not. His ginger hair is mussed, but his eyes are wide and alert as he stares at her. He stays quiet, and her irritation grows hotter. 

“What?” she snaps.

“It hurts, doesn’t it?” he asks. The few lights lit in the common room cast him in harsh shadow. For a moment, he almost looks sharp. “Your scar.”

“Can you think of any other reason I would be putting bacta on it?” she demands, narrowing her gaze at him before grabbing the cannister. She’ll finish in her room. “Your deductive reasoning skills are a disappointment.”

“You should have told Cere it was bad.”

“It’s not bad.” 

“It looks bad.”

“How complimentary,” she says, her voice dripping with venom and sarcasm as she goes to walk by him. 

“That’s not what I meant,” he insists, hard enough to make her stop walking. “I just … never mind.”

She doesn’t wait to hear what he did mean. What little bacta she spread on her scar is already dimming in its effectiveness, the pain returning as she closes the door to her “room” with perhaps a bit more force than necessary.

-

Nar Shaddaa is a terrible, messy place. There are too many people. There’s too much smog. There’s too much darkness. It means that she has to be on guard all the time, has to keep her shoulders and back muscles tensed in fear of someone running into her and making the scar hurt even more. Of course, to be tense results in pain anyway, but at the very least it results in less.

“Stay alert,” Cere says, as though she isn’t on her highest guard already. Trilla bites her tongue, keeping close to Cal and Cere as they look for their contact.

It’s easy work, in theory. There are Jedi scattered across the galaxy. Sometimes they feel safe, sometimes they don’t. If they don’t, then their services are offered. Relocation to another city, another planet, another rim. It sounds easy. 

And it would be, if there weren’t ridiculously bounties on each of their heads. Her’s, last she heard, is the most of all of theirs. 

Not only a fugitive, not only a defector, but a betrayer of the Empire. 

She keeps her hood up through the city, wanting to stretch her legs. There is no fresh air to be found in Nar Shaddaa, but there is fresh scenery, at the very least. She’s become tired of looking at the stars and durasteel surrounding her all day, every day.

She’s starting to regret her decision, though. 

“Hey, would you look at that…”

She’s heard hundreds of phrases in the past handful of minutes, in at least a dozen different languages. This one would be no different, if it wasn’t accompanied by an action. Whoever spoke apparently has a death wish, because the moment she feels a hand on her ass, her blaster is pulled from her belt and is under the human’s chin.

He’s an ugly, foul-looking being, with a dirty beard and sour breath and eyes that flicker with fear as she presses the barrel of her blaster up against his skin. “Would I look at what?” she asks, her voice dangerously smooth. 

“Uh…”

“That’s not an answer,” she says simply, but she lowers her blaster. It’s delicious, the relief in the idiot’s eyes before she turns her hand to shoot his. The disgusting smell of burned flesh reaches her nose as the man’s scream of pain pierces her ears. He takes a swing at her with his shot hand, and she steps back. 

She hits something hard, something alive, and she hisses in pain. There’s a hand on her waist, steadying, before she’s being pushed. 

“I thought we were supposed to be laying low?” Cal insists, guiding her away from the man currently shouting expletives and gesturing at her. Of all the places she could have shot someone, though, Nar Shaddaa is the best place. People stare, but there are no allies here, not for anyone. She keeps her head low so as not to be recognized, but no one steps up, no one attempts to grab them. Violence is as normal as breathing, here. 

“No one cares,” she promises. “They care only for themselves.”

“Are you all right?”

Trilla turns her head towards him. The hood conceals her identity, but it blinds her peripherals. Cal’s looking back at her, young face hardened with concern as he continues to walk alongside her. Concern. Why would he be concerned for her? She grits her teeth before looking back ahead, following Cere’s back through the crowd of disgusting people who have done unmentionable things. 

_Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?_

“Fine,” she lies, pushing ahead of him and tensing her muscles again, fire flaring up her scar thanks to her collision with him earlier. 

It's almost a distraction from the pain. Almost.

-

The low whirring of the ship has become white noise now. Before, the gentle clicking of the fans and the humming of all of the systems combined with the pain kept her up for hours. She had to wake up the next morning and see that the darkness around her eyes had gotten even darker. Cere asked once if she had slept well. The woman hasn't asked since.

Now, the noise is almost comforting. She stares at the ceiling, braced on her side so as not to anger the damned scar further. Sure, it puts strain on her arm and a little on her hip, but at the very least the fire that was her back is now low embers. Still present, and ready to be stoked to life with a single wrong move or twist, but it's bearable.

For the time being.

She's just on the verge of sleep when there's a knock on her door. Gentle. Almost hesitant. 

"Trilla?"

His Force signature is annoyingly loud on the other side of the door. She doesn't move, glaring at the door instead. She could attempt to Force push him away, but that would require moving. And she only just found a position that doesn't result in agony--

One more knock. "I have the bacta, if you need it. I can help."

Of course he can help. And of course he offers it. Damned little Jedi, too good and too pure. Aware of the cruelty and unfairness of the galaxy, and still willing to offer his assistance to the person who deserves it the least--

"I know you can't reach all of it."

 _Do you?_ she wants to snap at him, but she remains quiet, hoping he'll assume she's asleep and give up his ridiculous mission. Help her? Please. She doesn’t need his help. 

There is silence. She can still feel his signature on the other side of the door. She waits, counting her heartbeats. One. Two. Three…

He gives up after five heartbeats. She hears him sigh, and then his footsteps as he walks away. His Force signature is still pulsing, is still present in the back of her mind, but is less irritatingly _there._

The dark of sleep escapes her for longer than she would have liked. The hammering of her pulse keeps her awake, more distracting than the tightness of her scar and the aching of her muscles.

-

“Again.”

It’s angry today. The skin is tight and hot beneath her touch, aggravated by something she must have done in her sleep. Training with Cal isn’t helping, not in the slightest, but at least it’s a distraction.

He hits at her dowel, making a weak attempt to disarm her. She resists it, instead twisting her wrist so that his bends back. He hisses in pain, yanking his weapon away from her and repositioning himself.

“You’re open,” Trilla snarls, taking the opportunity to lash out at him. He blocks her attack, but barely. A second more and he would be bearing a nasty bruise on his upper arm. “You trust your opponent to be fair, Cal Kestis. You should know that fairness is a myth.”

“Is it?” he asks, pushing back against her. He’s learning, she’ll give him that, at least. His stance is better, more stable. His strength has improved, the way he focuses it rather than blindly attacking. She has to admit, she’s impressed. He listens. 

Perhaps he shouldn’t, not to her, but he does. 

His attack takes her by surprise. One moment he’s pushing back against her, the next he’s pulling away. She isn’t given the chance for confusion before he’s Force pushing her in an attempt to get her back. She stumbles, and he sees his opening.

“Good.” She purrs the word, impressed with his strategy even as she blocks his swing to her waist. She shoves her dowel up, forcing his up as well. He steps forward, pressing harder, wood scraping against wood as their makeshift weapons lock and force them to look at each other. “That wasn’t fair... I’m impressed.”

“Thanks.” He’s breathless, hair falling in his face and eyes dark with focus. She smirks, pressing further against him, their dowels shifting so that hers is almost near his neck. If they were truly using blades, the light would be reflecting against his skin, the heat of it just on the edge of painful. 

As it is, Cal glances at the dowel before he makes one final push against her. 

She stumbles. It’s her own fault, really. She hadn’t realized how close he was, hadn’t realized how his feet were positioned compared to hers. The result is her falling back, and falling hard. A pained gasp is ripped from her lips as she collides with the floor, every bit of her back screaming in agony as she arches and hisses through clenched teeth. 

“Kriff.” He’s realized what just happened. There are hands on her arms, guiding her up from the floor. Though he’s trying to help, the sudden movement makes everything that much worse. This time, it’s not a gasp. It’s an actual cry of pain as she grabs at him, her nails sinking into the pale skin of his arm.

He doesn’t protest, doesn’t say a damn thing as she breathes. As she tries not to scream. As she tries not to cry. Weaknesses can always be turned into strengths, pain into passion and perseverance, but _hell_ , this hurts.

“Trilla. Trilla, look at me, I’m going to get some bacta, okay? Just stay-”

“No.” She stares at the reddened crescents she dug into his pale skin, so violent and so obvious. “No, I don’t need bacta, I don’t need your help.”

“You can keep saying that but I’m not going to believe you.”

“Whether you choose to believe me or not is your decision,” she snaps, glaring at him as she picks herself up. A whimper trembles on her tongue, but she keeps her lips tightly closed, refusing to let it slip through. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not, though.”

_“I’m fine.”_

It would have been convincing, she thinks, if she wasn’t fighting tears of pain and frustration. If her voice didn’t break.

Trilla turns before he can say anything else, biting her lip hard enough to taste bitter blood. 

-

The damn sound is enough for her to break into a cold sweat. 

There’s a vent in her room that, on occasion, decides to sound like a ventilator. It’s not often, a handful of times a night, and if she’s lucky she sleeps through it. 

She’s not so lucky tonight. 

It sounds just enough like _his_ breathing, his mask, his _presence_ that she jerks awake. For half a second, half a heartbeat she panics, feeling as though she can’t move she can’t breathe she’s stuck he has her he’s going to—

The phantom pain makes her inhale through her teeth. It lasts for only a few seconds, contrary to the actual wound itself, but it’s enough to make the muscles contract, to make the already present, dull, aching pain even worse.

This time, she recognizes his Force signature almost immediately. He’s awake. And he’s been waiting.

He doesn’t show himself, doesn’t step from the hallway until after she’s settled on the edge of the sofa, her knees tucked beneath her. It’s the pose they were both taught, to connect to the Force. To rest. To heal.

She slips her arms from the sleeves, making absolutely sure that the shirt still covers her chest before she glances slightly to the side, where he’s lingering. She doesn’t need to speak. He steps out from the shadows, and goes to get the bacta.

Her lungs still feel like they’re quivering between her ribs. Her hands are still shaking as she stares at where they’re braced on her knees _. Weak,_ she tells herself. And she has half a mind to stand, to pull her shirt back over her scarred skin and brush him off, but she hears the hiss of the cannister and it’s ridiculous how just that manages to calm her. Her mind is broken, it seems. More broken than usual, to take such fear and then such relief from sounds alone.

There’s the slick, sticky, disgusting sound of fingers meeting bacta. Trilla holds her breath, her lungs aching as she waits, bracing herself for the shock of not only the slimy bacta, but of another person’s touch.

He’s gentle, she’ll give him that. But it’s still so different than what she’s used to. It shocks her awake in the best way, and she gasps, feeling his fingers jerk away at her reaction.

“Sorry,” he offers immediately. “Did I hurt you?”

“No,” she insists. “Keep going.” _Please._

He does as asked. He’s far more careful with it than she ever was. Then again, she couldn’t reach much of it. Her reflection was warped, just barely visible in the durasteel wall of her room. She could see some of it, but not all of it. Going by touch is difficult, the nerves damaged enough that she can’t truly feel what’s in pain and what isn’t. Between the lack of visibility and lack of flexibility, the best she ever managed was a sloppy smearing across most of her scar.

It’s shameful, truly. A complete and utter embarrassment to all she was conditioned to feel, or rather, conditioned not to feel. Pain was supposed to fuel her, propel her towards success and greatness, not tear her down and make her feel like … like she’s worth less than she’s ever been worth before. As an Inquisitor. As a padawan.

“Let me know if I hurt you, okay?”

She says nothing. The bacta’s gentle heat coaxes her muscles to relax, for all the nerves to quiet just for a few moments. It allows her to breathe deeply without agony for the first time in several hours, and she enjoys every second of it. Enjoys the simple act of breathing. Ha. How pathetic she’s become…

He finishes all too soon. The bacta is warm, but the pressure of his hands was better. She looks up from her lap, hearing the rustling of fabric as he wipes his hands of the blue substance. He looks so … plain, like this. No poncho. No buckles, no belts. Just his shirt and pants. They’re not wrinkled, not like they would be if he’d gone to bed. He was waiting up for her.

There it is. That warmth in his smile, in his voice, that she knows well by now. It's more soothing than the bacta. “See? That wasn’t so bad.”

She snorts in laughter, holding her shirt to her chest as she stands. She’ll sleep on her stomach, she decides. Keep the bacta from wiping off. Let it actually work. “No, it wasn’t bad,” she promises, meeting his eyes. She wants to say something about self reliance, about rejecting help, but the words are caught just on the tip of her tongue. “… thank you.” It comes out softer than she wanted.

“No problem.” He really doesn’t know what this means to her, does he? Or maybe he does, and he’s just acting as though it’s nothing. “Here to help. Not exactly unused to scars myself.”

No, she knows that. His own are prominent against his pale skin. The one across his nose perhaps the most, but she can see one across his lower lip, another crossing his eyebrow. There’s the one on his neck, too. One on his jaw, from one of their recent missions. A nick, really, that healed far more quickly and far more cleanly than her disaster of a scar.

“I hope you can get some sleep.”

It’s startling, really, how cold the realization is that she doesn’t deserve his kindness. It’s been lingering in the back of her mind for a while now, ever since he showed her mercy on Nur, his disabling his lightsaber and taking a step back instead. Ever since they dragged her through the ice cold water onto the ship. It’s been lingering, nagging, tugging at her thoughts, but it’s never been quite so prominent as it is now.

Despite being free of pain for the first time in a very, very long time, her sleep is fitful at best, her bare back still sticky with bacta in the morning. Her sheets and shirt are sticky with it, too.

-

She will admit it. Not out loud, but she will admit it to herself.

To have someone else spread the bacta on is comforting. Not only does it cover properly, ensuring that the healing is consistent, but there’s just something about someone else’s touch that makes her feel not quite so horrid all the time. She still feels like she’s splintering on the inside, yes, but she’s no longer in agony. In pain, yes, but not agony.

If Cere or Merrin or Greez know about their new nightly routine, none say anything. Trilla’s grateful for their silence, for their lack of judgement when she knows damn well she should be judged, perhaps even punished for what she’s done. Cere mentions something about her movements being more at ease, but nothing in her tone or her eyes suggests she knows _why._

He’s always careful. Always asks if he’s hurting her. Sometimes she wonders – she won’t admit it’s worry – about whether he’s too trusting, about whether he’s too compassionate, but then he goes and proves her wrong by slicing right through a Stormtrooper when they’re almost discovered on a mission. He’s hesitant, still, of all of their contacts, his back straight and hand firmly on the hilt of his saber. Compassionate? Yes. To those he trusts. He doesn’t trust many easily.

She hates how happy it makes her that she’s on his list of ‘who to trust’, regardless of how undeserving she is to be on it in the first place.

She can train again. She was older when the order was given. She had more combat training. Cal is fine, yes, he can hold his own and proven so, but she is better.

Eventually, after two weeks, she can reach the top shelf in the galley without gritting her teeth and blinking back tears. It may not seem like much progress to anyone else, but to her, it’s a milestone.

It means she’s healing. She may not ever be whole again, not truly, but she can reach a cup. And that’s … that’s good.

He’s already awake when she comes out. Sometimes BD-1 joins them, his little beeps and chirps lowered in volume but no less cheerful or reassuring in tone. One day she’ll admit she enjoys his presence, the positivity he brings, the way he turned to her side faster than any of the other crew, scanning her and acknowledging her wounds. All of them.

There’s no BD-1 tonight. “He’s charging,” Cal offers. She wasn’t going to ask, but he answers the silent question anyway as she makes her way to the sofa, kneeling on the cushion like she always has. The pose immediately brings her calm, brings her strength as she breathes deeply and prepares for the warmth. It still twinges at night. If she tried, she could maybe sleep without it.

Maybe, she tells herself.

The reality is, she could sleep without it. The reality also is, she doesn’t want to admit she enjoys this.

Cal already has the cannister in his hand – have they really gone through that much that he needed to open a new one? – when she makes a stupid, split second decision that she realizes too late could alter their relationship entirely. For better or worse? Undecided.

“Wait.”

He stops as she slips her arms from the sleeve of her shirt. This time, instead of leaving the fabric to rest against her chest and give her some sort of covering, she takes it off entirely, setting it on the table. She hears his hitch of breath at seeing her bare-chested and chooses to focus her attention on sweeping her hair away from her neck, instead, leaving her back entirely bare.

“I take it off in the room anyway.” She turns her head, sees the way his pale cheeks have become a brilliant shade of pink and he’s frozen, as though stuck in carbonite. “If I leave it on, it sticks to the bacta.”

“Makes sense.” What she’s sure was an attempt at something nonchalant ends up sounding choked, and she smirks as he walks closer.

There are several snide comments she could make. About his time on Bracca. About taking advantage of free time during their missions. Has he truly never seen a woman bare before? She opens her mouth. To say what, she isn’t sure. But her lips close the moment the warm, gelatinous bacta is smeared across her skin, the relief of the gel overwhelming. She trained earlier, maybe pushed too hard too soon. She’s paying for it now, but the fire of her muscles burning earlier, that surge of strength, that was worth it.

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Doing this.”

“You’ve already thanked me,” he replies, obviously not aware of how many times the words caught behind her teeth before she actually let them slip through her lips. “It’s all right. It only takes a few minutes and gets you to sleep, right? You don’t hit as hard in training when you sleep better.”

_Oh?_

He realizes his blunder the same time she does. By the time she’s turned, his eyes have widened, and she raises one dark brow at him. “You’re doing this,” she starts, “because it makes our training sessions easier?”

Oh, she knows. She knows he’s doing it because he’s Cal. Because despite all he’s been through, despite what the Jedi attempted to teach him, he has emotion. He has compassion. He has empathy.

But it’s fun to tease him.

“No,” he insists. “No, that’s not it!”

She smirks. He looks so scared, his hands sticky with the blue goop and eyes still wide until he realizes that she’s toying with him.

“You’re… never mind,” he says. His cheeks are still pink, and she gets some satisfaction as she turns back around, letting him work once more. It’s a long scar, from her hip to her shoulder. She feels his fingers cross over her spine, spreading the bacta perhaps a bit further than necessary. But she doesn’t complain. More is better, will soothe her aching muscles as well.

“I’m doing it because you need it.”

She lifts her eyes from her hands, staring at the pattern in the leather of the couch.

“You should have asked for help earlier. I could tell you were having trouble with it.”

Trilla bites the inside of her cheek, her gaze tracing the lines in the cushions.

“Hiding what you’re ashamed of isn’t a way to live. I know.”

He was anticipating for her to whip around. He doesn’t let her. His palm is broad and rough against the skin of her shoulder, gently holding her in place. He’s not going to let her argue about this.

Not when they both know he’s right.

“I’m not ashamed of it,” she hisses, turning her head as best as she can. She can see him in her peripherals, can feel his hand as he continues to hold her shoulder. It’s not the gentle touch she’s used to. It’s firmer, his thumb pressing into her muscle in a way that almost – almost – relieves the tension. “I know what it looks like. You said it yourself, Cal Kestis. It’s not pretty. I know that damn well.”

“That’s not what you’re ashamed of.”

“Then what _am_ I ashamed of?” She jerks her shoulder, ignoring the flare of pain that makes her clench her jaw as she turns and glares at him. “Tell me, since you seem to know so well,” she says, her voice taunting.

The flush has disappeared from his face, despite the fact that she’s facing him almost completely now. His hands are still glistening with bacta, his own jaw clenched and gaze hardened as he looks down at her. “You don’t…” he starts, before he stops, considering his words.

“I don’t what?” she snaps.

“If you want to pretend everything’s fine, that you’re fine, then do it with Cere,” Cal insists, his voice just as hard as hers. “Do it with Merrin. Do it with Greez. But don’t do it with me. I touched your lightsaber, remember? I know what you’ve been through. All that pain. And if you want to go through more, then go ahead, do it yourself. But I think you’ve been through enough.”

 _But you’re not the one who gets to decide_ , she wants to say. It’s on the tip of her tongue, almost passing her lips before she decides against it.

She taunted him while training about assuming all adversaries would be fair. Life isn’t fair, why would every encounter be? But … to accuse him of not knowing her when he’s seen more than anyone else has, when he knows more than anyone else does?

He doesn’t know her. Not as well as he thinks he does. But to throw it back in his face would be, dare she say it, unfair.

_I think you’ve been through enough._

She could argue with him on that until they’re both breathless. It’s not worth the effort, not tonight.

And so she turns, preparing herself for his touch to be rougher, to be more aggressive, or maybe to not be there at all.

But it’s as soft and tender as it’s always been, always so damn careful.

She finds herself grateful for just how long the scar is.

It gives her few rogue tears time to dry before she has to turn and face him again as they part ways.

-

The most difficult thing to come to terms with, if she’s entirely honest with herself, is not that she’s become attached to him. It’s _how_ attached she’s come to him.

Attachments, according to both the Empire and the Jedi, result in weakness. To the Jedi, it is to commit to emotion. To the Empire, it is to reveal a hole in the armor they so helpfully condition around all those who are in their grasp.

She’s already accepted the fact that she’s become slightly attached to him when he goes missing.

It’s not a mission gone wrong, per se. It’s a mission that didn’t go as planned. What was supposed to be a simple drop off of a former Jedi turned into searching the red-grassed plains of the remote planet for hours. The thick, high grass does a good job of disguising holes and crevices. By the time Cal emerges, he’s covered in some kind of foul-smelling mud from falling down into some pit hidden by the grasses. While the smell won’t be forgotten any time soon, it’s the mud that made him stand out against the copper-red blades, and so Trilla has to be somewhat grateful for it.

His smile is sheepish, almost, as he approaches, handing her his lightsaber after one, two, three shakes in an attempt to get most of the mud off. “BD-1,” he breathes, reaching down in an attempt to pat the droid. BD-1 hops away, shaking his square-shaped head vehemently, and Cal laughs.

He laughs. He smiles. He is completely and utterly oblivious to the overwhelming relief that’s currently overwhelming her, and to the heartbreak and despair that damn near consumed her just moments ago.

She has a few choice words for him on her tongue, but she settles with a simple, “You took your time, didn’t you?” in the sweetest voice she can muster. Of course, he knows what that tone means, and his smile falls. She ignores how charming he manages to look with mud streaked all over his face, and she turns away in favor of cleaning his weapon for him.

Not because she wants to get into every nook and cranny of metal and bolts and screws, scrubbing the foul mud out.

But because she knows that’s exactly what he’d do if she’d been the one to fall in.

He acts like nothing’s wrong when he emerges from the fresher.

Like he has no idea that her heart is still racing, that her stomach is still in knots, that her throat is still tight.

“You’ll be more careful next time,” she says, feeling him start at the top of her scar later that night. The smell still lingers in the common room, but it’s not nearly as bad as it was before.

She doesn’t say he should be more careful. She doesn’t say he needs to be more careful. It’s an order. He will be more careful.

“I’m always careful,” Cal replies. “Can’t plan everything, though.”

He doesn’t get it. Of course he doesn’t.

Trilla turns around. He’s surprised, his hands shining and sticky with bacta. “Did I hurt you?” he asks.

Damn him. Damn him and his compassion, damn him and his care, damn him and the way he’s made her care too…

His hair is soft, clean. As it should be after three turns in the fresher trying to get the mud off. Her fingers slip right through it as she cups the back of his neck and pulls him in, their mouths colliding messily.

It takes a few seconds for him to react. Of course it does. The foolish Jedi Knight has no idea what he does to her. Of course he’s surprised.

But then he responds and oh, he responds beautifully.

His bacta-covered sticky-slick hands come to her waist, pulling her against him. She’s taller than him, just by a bit, and she loves how he tilts his face up eagerly to continue kissing her. It’s sloppy, and inexperienced. She can’t imagine he found pleasant company on Bracca, even for something brief, and so the way he tries to taste her isn’t exactly preferred. But it’s something. Maker, it’s something.

“What was that for?” She’s seen him flushed before, but she’s never seen his lips pinked from kissing. She decides she likes it, especially since it makes that scar on his lower lip more prominent.

“Do I need a reason?” she asks, raising a dark brow at him. His eyes are wide and oh, he is so precious. So oblivious.

“I guess not,” he says, before he surprises her by leaning in again.

He learns quickly, she knows that from training. She should have expected he'd learn quickly _here_ , too.

-

If she were to guess, she’d make a pretty decent bet on the idea that flirting wasn’t exactly a priority on Bracca. It would explain some of the stranger lines Cal’s given her, given the variety of species who worked on the rusting planet.

For what he lacks in verbal charm, though, he makes up for in other ways. Since she kissed him, he’s almost always nearby. And, on top of that, almost always touching her. As though the warmth of her skin against hers reassures him that this is actually happening.

She doesn’t mind it, not really. It takes some getting used to, to be sure. The Empire meant a uniform, meant one was covered, protected. Long sleeves. Gloves. Boots. She’s gotten used to skin-to-skin contact, thanks to his assistance with her back, but that’s different. Holding hands is … an experience. Yes, they’re sitting next to each other, and yes, it feels good when he moves his hand and rests it on top of hers just because, but it’s strange. There are no gloves in the way. And, on top of that, they’re _allowed_ to do this. The Jedi Order would scorn them, if they were in a different time and place.

But they’re here. And they’re now. And the Jedi Order is no longer. And if Cere has thoughts on Cal putting his hand on Trilla’s knee when they’re all sitting around having a drink, she says nothing.

They’ve just moved from familiar territory into unfamiliar the first time he well and truly holds her.

The bacta is still drying, still sticky and slimey on her back. It leaves their options pretty limited when it comes to intimate embraces, but they’re both clever. They know how to get what they want, what they need.

He’s sitting on the sofa. She straddles him, taking great pride in the strangled noise he makes when she slides up further, her knees hitting the back cushions of the bench as she wraps her arms around his neck. He’s still flushing bright red, lips softly parted, as though in awe that they’re doing this, they’re really, really doing this.

“You’re surprised,” she notes, looking down at him. She’s taller than him standing, and so she’s taller than him here. But kriff if it doesn’t melt some carbonite-cold section of her heart just a little to see him looking up at her like that.

“A bit, yeah,” Cal confesses. “Didn’t think this would happen. Us, I mean.”

“That’s both of us, then,” she croons, her thumb brushing against the scarred skin of his neck. She realizes, belatedly, that his hands are at his sides. Limp. Awkward. “You can touch me, you know.”

“Where?” he asks. He’s been wanting to ask, she can tell, and she hums, moving her hand through his hair. It’s a good question. Normally, she would move his hands to the small of her back, but there’s bacta there. So she leans back, seeing how his eyes move towards her chest and – ah, ha.

“My waist,” she offers, taking his wrists and guiding his hands to her waist, partially covered by her loose grey sleeping pants but there’s some skin he can touch, as well. “Or, if you’re feeling brave, my chest.”

“I am not feeling brave.” 

“Waist it is.” She tries to keep her chuckle out of her voice. She’s not sure she succeeds. Oh, he is too precious.

His hands are rough. Years of being a scrapper will do that, she guesses. Hers are softer, always in gloves from her Inquisitor uniform. She traces the scar across his nose, starting beneath his right eye, then tracing it across to his left. His nose crinkles slightly, and she smirks, before she stops. “What, you don’t like it?”

“No one’s done that,” he replies, blinking at her. “It’s … weird.”

“Do you want me to st-“

“No.”

His answer’s so immediate it interrupts her. She does it again, repeating the gentle touch. It’s almost too gentle, maybe. She’s never been this soft with anyone but the younglings. The few she trusted to touch her on Nur were nameless, forgettable faces. Good for one reason and one reason only. She was forgettable to them too, she’d bet her bounty on it.

His hands slip from her waist to her hips as she traces the scar once more, before moving to the one on his lower lip. She cups his cheek, feeling stubble that will be shaved off come morning, and runs her thumb up along the line. It could be from Bracca. It could be from some training exercise with Tapal. She had her fair share of mishaps, as well. Youth is a time to make mistakes.

She made more than she’d care to admit. But, then again, they all have.

Safety is a strange concept, at least now. Before, she felt safe with her master, safe with the guidance of the Force. As in Inquisitor, she felt anything but. She didn’t bother convincing herself she was valued. It was all a lie. Of use? Yes. Of value? Hardly. She was never safe there, either.

And she most certainly isn’t safe with their little crew, not with the bounty on her head as they hop between planets, trying desperately to both help others and escape capture.

But with Cal? She’s not sure she’d go so far as to say she feels safe, but she feels protected, at the very least. Chest to chest like this, he can guard her back, and she can guard his. His hands, too, are a reminder that he has her, that she’s here. Even as they roam up her side and she has to bite her lip to keep from laughing, the skin sensitive, especially thanks to the scar.

On his third pass down, he slips just a little lower, hands sliding beneath the soft fabric of her sleep pants to hold her bare hips. She’s still brushing her thumb against his lower lip, and so she raises a brow at him again in silent question.

“Can I?” he asks, hesitantly.

“I think it’s a little too late for that, don’t you?” she asks, smirking in amusement. “But yes, you can.”

The awe with which he looks at her is a lovely change from the loathing and determination with which he looked at her on Bracca, on Zeffo, on Bogano. It was delicious then, to be sure, to get such a strong reaction out of the former Padawan. He feels deeply. He would have made a wonderful Dark sider.

But she much prefers this, the way his hands move along her skin, feeling the scars, the marks that come from simply being human.

“Has it been better?” His hand touches where the scar ends at her hip. “Since the bacta?”

“Immensely.” She leans in to brush her mouth against his, her teeth just skirting along his lower lip. “But I think I could use a few more nights of it…"

“You don’t have to use the bacta as an excuse for me to touch you,” Cal says.

She pulls back, humming in question. “Is that what you think I’m doing?”

“Yes,” he replies simply.

So he’s feeling braver, now, if he comes back with that response. She leans forward, her mouth searching out his to show her appreciation of his newfound courage. She nips at his lower lip and he jumps, her chuckles buzzing against his mouth as she feels him grab at her ass in reflex.

“So what if I am?” she whispers, rocking into him.

The sound he makes is delightful. A strangled moan that she eagerly swallows, guiding his mouth open so that she can taste him. He’s still clumsy, still a little unsure in his technique, but the boy’s nothing if not a quick learner. And handsy. He’s very, very handsy. Something about his psychometry, probably. Needing to feel, needing to touch.

She doesn’t mind it, not in the slightest.

He looks so gorgeous with his lips kiss swollen, his ginger hair mussed, his cheeks flushed. Not to mention his rumpled clothes when they finally admit to themselves that bed is probably a good idea, and separate beds at that. Greez has only just stopped making comments about the sudden increase in touching – to emerge from the same room in the morning might cause some medical issues that bacta probably won’t be able to fix.

“Good night,” Cal whispers, her makeshift room close enough to Merrin’s that the precaution is taken. Knowing the Nightsister, she can still hear them, but it’s worth a try.

The kiss he gives her is soft, and sweet.

For all that he’s healed, the cold ache in her chest only gets colder as she watches him leave, thoughts of deserving and worth and punishment circling in her head until she wonders if her skull is going to explode with them.

It’s no longer the physical pain that keeps her awake into the early morning.

-

Trilla’s half asleep when she feels it.

“What are you doing?”

There’s a bit of venom in her voice as she turns her head as best as she can. She can feel Cal beside her – no, over her, she can feel his arm draped across her waist, and his lips on her bare shoulder.

More specifically, the scar on her bare shoulder.

“Guess,” Cal replies, putting another open-mouthed kiss against the damaged skin.

The little shit. “Don’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“It feels odd.” It doesn’t. It feels nice, actually, but she’s not going to tell him that. “Stop it.”

Cal, as she’s learned, is more impulsive than she ever gave him proper credit for. Of course, there was the incident on Bracca where he pulled out his saber to defend his friend right in front of several Inquisitors. And then there was the time Cere told her about where the man jumped from a still airborne ship down into the waters of Kashyyyk to hijack a walker. He’s very good at judging danger, and judging when to ignore that threat in favor of doing what he feels is necessary.

And kissing her scar, apparently, is necessary.

“Cal Kestis.”

He ignores her in favor of continuing to kiss the mark over and over again, moving just a little each time. It’s still early, the rest of the crew asleep, the ship buzzing and humming and whirring around them as they make the most of their time before they have to keep up the ruse of sleeping in separate rooms. The early morning silence means she can hear every time his lips separate from her skin, the gentle little smack that makes her heart do funny, almost uncomfortable things in her chest. 

He gets to the middle of her back before she flips over, slipping her hand into his hair and pushing his head away from her. “I said stop,” she says more firmly, before she loosens her grip, sliding her fingers down to cup the back of his neck. “You need to listen.”

“You still don’t like it,” he reasons.

“And pray tell why would I _like_ it?” Trilla asks, narrowing her eyes at him.

“Why don’t you like it?”

“It’s a reminder,” she explains. “A reminder of my failure.”

“Your failure?” Cal asks. “That’s not a failure, Trilla, you let us take the holocron and let us destroy it. Those children are safe because of you.” He leans in to kiss her, so soft it hurts. “It’s not a failure.”

She doesn’t correct him, letting him believe for a moment that it’s all right, that she’s all right, that he was right and that’s all it is.

If she were in love with a dumb, simple man, he probably would have left it at that. But Cal Kestis is neither dumb nor simple, and so he pulls back, staring down at her – no, glaring down at her. “What else?” he asks.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re avoiding it,” he accuses.

“Because I don’t want to talk about it,” she hisses. “I liked our morning before you started this, and I’d like to return to it.”

“Trilla,” Cal tries, slipping his hand beneath the small of her back, forcing his fingers to be pressed between her scar and the sheets. “What is it?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

“Why did you save me?”

The Jedi Knight stares down at her. He blinks, pushing himself off of her just a little. He’s confused. “What?”

“You heard me,” she replies.

“Why did I …?” he asks, trailing off. “Because you’d been through so much pain, so much suffering, Trilla, you didn’t deserve more-“

“Don’t I?” she spits back, feeling his hand move from her back so that he can properly brace himself above her. “Don’t I deserve more? You don’t know how many Jedi I’ve killed, how many people I killed to get to said Jedi. It wasn’t your decision to make, Jedi. You should have just left me.”

And there it is.

She can see the moment his mind fully registers the words. The way he stills, his eyes going glassy for a second. The way he lingers above her, before he bends, and kisses not her lips, but the corner of her eye. She didn’t even notice the tears there, didn’t even feel the heat of them on her skin.

“Trilla,” he says, the words buzzing against her cheek. “It’s okay.”

It’s not okay. It’s perhaps the farthest thing from okay. He has no idea how much damage she’s done. Or how much damage has been done to her. He saw her memories, yes, he saw that she was tortured. He saw what she’s been through. But is that enough? No, she doesn’t think it is.

He doesn’t get it, not entirely.

And yet he’s still here.

“Turn over.”

When she doesn’t do as asked, he sighs, and moves to roll her over himself, holding her hip and trying to guide her. She wants to push him off of her with the Force, watch his bare skin hit the cold durasteel floor, but she indulges him after a few gentle pushes.

Immediately, his lips find her scar. “Cal-“ she warns, bearing her teeth even though he can’t truly see it.

“Let me do this,” he insists. “Please.”

She likes it when he begs. But she obliges him this time, tears soaking the pillow beneath her head even as she closes her eyes in a vain attempt to get them to stop.

He’s careful, as he always is. Sweet, as he always is. He starts at her shoulder, again, lips tracing the rough, jagged, _ugly_ line that crosses down her back. She’s tense, the muscles of her back and shoulders tight. He has to realize, she thinks, how truly uncomfortable this is making her.

And yet he continues.

He continues until he reaches her hip, pressing one last kiss to the end of the scar before he uses his hand to rub it. Long, smooth strokes with the palm of it, like he’s warming it or something. Trilla huffs, moving to turn back over when her lips are caught in a kiss, his hand on her hip, fingers spread across the scar.

“I didn’t see all that you went through,” he confesses. “But I know that you didn’t deserve any of it. And you really didn’t deserve this.” He rubs at the scar. It feels strange, still slightly numb, still healing. “But you know what it is? It’s a reminder. Of what you did right.”

She scoffs, turning to look up at him. “What, you defeating me,” she says sarcastically. “Yes, I suppose I did do something right, letting you beat me.”

“No, turning,” Cal insists. “I know, right before he entered, that you were going to come with us.”

“You know this,” she says, skeptical even though it’s true. She would have gone with them.

“Yes.”

“So certain, are you?”

“Yes,” he repeats. “So no more suffering, okay?”

He says it like its easy, when they both know it isn’t. But for a moment, as the low hum of the ship engines fills the silence of the early morning, it seems like it is. Easy.

“All right, Cal Kestis,” she says, her voice low and smooth as she reaches to bring him down for a kiss. “Fine. You win. No more suffering.” She makes sure to sound disappointed.

She’s rewarded with his laughter buzzing against her lips.

It's not quite enough to drown out the thoughts, but it's a damn good start.


End file.
